<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Trooper by Abandoning_The_Crown</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126421">Trooper</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abandoning_The_Crown/pseuds/Abandoning_The_Crown'>Abandoning_The_Crown</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A bit of feelings if you squint, Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, Captivity, Character Development, Coping, First Order propaganda, Gen, POV Second Person, Pre-TFA, Rated For Violence, Torture, reader is a stormtrooper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:01:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abandoning_The_Crown/pseuds/Abandoning_The_Crown</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A young, wide-eyed newbie - that’s who you were when you got sent out into your first battle under the bloody red banner of the First Order. Survival was everything, and you knew it well; you swore your allegiance and climbed through the ranks, gaining recognition you’ve always wanted… at the expense of your own precious sanity.</p><p>You knew it was more than you could manage; a one-way ticket. Not like you could turn back. Not like you <em>wanted</em> to turn back.</p><p>And so you drowned - <em>alone.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Armitage Hux &amp; Reader, Armitage Hux/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Trooper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for choosing to click on this story, I hope you enjoy it!<br/>Collage made by me using the following tool:<br/>https://www.canva.com</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p>
<hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p>You remembered the first official day on duty. You were young, ambitious; wide-eyed and naive, eager to please, eager to learn. The results of your final evaluations and the scores you have gotten throughout the specialized training were exceptional - there was a fire, a will to achieve more, a desire to aim higher. You remembered suppressing an excited twitch of your fingers as they rested on your blaster, a feeling of confidence and giddy anticipation rushing through your spine; for the very first time in <em> years, </em>you were out, on a real battlefield. Not in a training room, not even inside of a simulation - and it felt as good as it was terrifying.</p><p>There was no room for sympathy, no room for hesitation. No time to even think through your next move: the bright spray of red and the stench of burnt cloth and skin, melted by the merciless, pure plasma, as well as the ache in your legs and the taste of sweat rolling off your upper lip - it was all different.</p><p>It was <em> real.</em></p><p>You knew the rules, you knew the objective, and you knew the consequences of returning with empty hands, or not returning at all; so you fought. Stumbled over the bodies of the fallen, both your fellow stormtroopers and the traitorous Resistance scum, choked on the limited oxygen, poisoned by the explosions and smoke bombs, and squeezed the trigger until your fingers felt numb.</p><p>That day, as you stood before your sergeant, gloved hands trembling as you raised one to your temple concealed by the stained white helmet, you became an adult. You were scrutinized, and you were praised; you were chastised, and then you were questioned.</p><p>But nobody <em>doubted</em> you.</p><p>That rush of pride, that compulsive, persistent feeling of importance was all it took to cease your trembling; your restraint was, of course, impeccable - you didn’t allow yourself to smile even with your face hidden, yet your mind was occupied with the residual memories of a small war won that fateful day.</p><p>You stepped over the corpses of the fallen with a pep in your step, barely sparing a glance to the bodies in white armor slumped beneath your feet, unmoving, lifeless - blasted, stabbed, ripped to shreds by explosions. You remembered thinking that it didn’t matter, that <em> they </em> were weak, and that <em> you </em>were strong; living, breathing, feeling, returning home, returning to the First Order alive and well.</p><p>Nothing else was of importance. You passed.</p><p>You didn’t look back.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
Being a part of the infantry squad wasn’t something one could describe as being particularly easy. You were immediately assigned into your very own team, under the command of a squad leader, and sent off on another mission soon after.</p><p>You and your teammates were forced to watch your superior fall to the ground, an angry red wound blasted through his skull, entering the side of his helmet and forming a round, rimmed with black hole, quick, painless. He didn’t even make a sound.</p><p>A fight broke out. You caught a plasma bolt to the side of your knee, unprotected by the white armor plate. That sent you tumbling down, more stunned than hurt; the pain, however, was quick to catch up, burnt skin bubbling with blood. Your voice sounded different when you screamed, a croaking, rumbling sound, furious, thoroughly irritated.</p><p>You were aware of the First Order policies regarding wounded stormtroopers. Your injuries made you a liability, a weak link, a useless bag of meat and bones that would’ve been better off dead than alive. <em> A disgrace</em>. Bitter curses spilling from your mouth, you crawled towards cover, managing to grab a hold of your blaster; there was a dark trail of fresh crimson left behind you as you dragged your leg - adrenaline numbing the pain and anger contributing to the reckless, dangerous assault you unleashed onto your enemy from behind your cover.</p><p>You could have turned your blaster to the base of your own jaw and pulled the trigger, to free the First Order from a burden such as yourself, to honor your cause. To allow someone else to take your place.</p><p>A growl made its way past your twitching mouth, teeth clattering.</p><p>No. No way. You would've never given everything up in exchange for an easy way out - that was even less honorable than going through the punishing, humiliating process of reconditioning. You knew better than to commit such a cowardly act.</p><p>So you didn’t. You waited. You attacked.</p><p>You won again.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The white pauldron you wore on your right shoulder wasn't heavy, neither was it uncomfortable to wear; adding it to your armor, however, felt different. <em>Alien</em>. The memory of your very first squad leader being murdered right in front of you, cut off mid-sentence, and red splattering onto the shiny, white, previously clean surface of his pauldron, was still fresh in your mind. Of course, the one you wore did not belong to your former superior, yet it still felt weird possessing it. Having it rest on your shoulder, a fleeting reminder of the responsibility you had to bear from then on.</p><p>You were in command of a relatively small squad of troopers - there were six, including you. The assignment was easy, almost too easy: you were ordered to travel to another planet and retrieve data rumored to concern a new type of infantry weapon that was developed by the Resistance. It was expected to be a dead lead, one that would bring you right back to the Starkiller Base in no time with empty hands, which is why you never requested for a superior to accompany your team.</p><p>It was a ruse, and you were not quick enough to realize it; when the shots were fired, it was already too late to retreat or call for backup - the ambush was planned very carefully, and when your squad had gotten into a trap, all six of you were cut off from your ship, and from any means of sending a distress signal. The only option was to fight, and that was something you were good at.</p><p>Unlike the newbies assigned into your squad.</p><p>They fell one after another, making rookie mistakes that you could see yourself doing when you were younger; their training was not nearly enough to grant them an easy victory, and so they all died, right before your eyes.</p><p>You barked out orders that they followed, without a question, and your orders were what had gotten all of them killed. It didn't matter at that moment, and you came close to hating yourself for ever feeling this way in the end, but back then, you were still young. Not naive, not anymore - just proud and so, so foolish.</p><p>You cut and shot, and once again, you succeeded. A red-stained vibroblade sticking out of your arm, stabbed just below the smeared white pauldron of honor and through the black fabric unprotected by your armor, went unnoticed as you stood in the middle of the battle site, eyes glued to a whimpering figure locked inside of a suit of light armor, with cracks splitting the mud-smeared helmet into two; the stormtrooper had a row of blaster wounds shot through their stomach, shattering the once pristine white plate - fired presumably out of a cannon or a weapon similar in firepower to it. Their head tilted as you approached, and a suppressed, pitiful sob left them. <em>A woman, </em>you thought as you listened to the high-pitched gasps escaping the trooper; your blaster felt heavy when you lifted it, with your uninjured hand, and took a steady aim at her head. You didn't miss the way she stiffened, gloved hands shaking as she moved them weakly by her sides, restless, panicked.</p><p>"<em>Will... you...?</em>" came a croak from her, barely above a whisper, not filtered by her dysfunctional helmet; you stared at her, unsure of what exactly she was asking from you. "<em>Please.</em>"</p><p>You squeezed the trigger.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sometimes you woke up to blood-curdling screams and desperate weeping; it would ring all around you, close and far at the same time. It always took you a good couple of minutes to realize that the sounds weren't coming from somewhere beside you, or behind you; that, in fact, the screams weren't real. At times like these, you could do nothing but swallow down a nervous laugh bubbling in the back of your throat, praying that your sleeping pod at least muffled the sound of your distressed whimpering.</p><p>Admitting weakness was the same as admitting defeat; the First Order was an extension of the Supreme Leader's will, a powerful force that aimed for perfection. Having any sort of weakness resulted in an unavoidable death, a <em>dishonorable </em>death. The training taught you how to fight, yet it didn't teach you how to cope; you were all alone in this battle against your own mind, and so you kept it all to yourself.</p><p>As a means of distraction, you often compared your superiors to each other, assessed their behavior and noted their methods of handling different situations; just like during the first year into the stormtrooper training, you looked up to those around you, hoping that someone could unknowingly teach you something new, something useful.</p><p>One of such people was General Hux.</p><p>Back then, your only knowledge of him consisted of fleeting signatures on requisition forms and rumors spoken amongst troopers when the high-ranking officers weren't around. General Hux was feared and respected for his ruthless, calculating nature and sharp, strategic mind; he was, of course, untouchable, protected by the many of your superiors - it made sense, considering that he was directly under command of the Supreme Leader himself. You often found yourself wondering how someone as young as General Hux managed to achieve such a high level of respect amongst a society as unforgiving as the First Order, and your fellow stormtroopers seemed to have multiple answers to that: some spoke of his cruel ministrations that had gotten rid of his rivals, which was why he became so influential so quickly; some laughed about his abilities to charm and persuade; some whispered of a tragic past and a cruel parent shaping him into a stone-hearted monster.</p><p>Whichever it was, the result was all the same. General Hux was a powerful individual and a strong leader; not a trace of doubt was present on his flawless features whenever you managed to catch a glimpse of him from a distance, and each time you did, you were unable to look away. He didn't need to raise his voice whenever he gave a command - everyone followed his orders without a question, too scared to even look him properly in the eye, - but when he did, it felt as if you were thrown into the unforgiving tundra of Hoth; the General did not tolerate mistakes, and his subordinates did everything they could to avoid making them. </p><p>You admired General Hux for his ability to make anyone afraid with just one look, one twitch of a brow, one word; he wasn’t an unpleasant-looking man, his face wasn’t littered with gruesome scars or hideous marks - he was clear-skinned and cold-eyed, and that said more than any scar ever could.</p><p>He was self-assured and determined; anyone could recognize him by the sound of his steps alone, and soon, you learned to do that too. Just like others, you stopped whatever you were doing and turned to face him, hand flying up to your visor as General Hux passed by, the long, dark coat that hung off his shoulders whooshing softly as he did. He never spared a glance in your direction, or in anyone’s direction for that matter, with the exception when addressed directly. You, a lowly squad leader, had no reason to do that, and so you stood by, eyes forward, back straight, breath held and hands sweating under the tight leather gloves.</p><p>You often wished to have the same amount of unperturbed confidence. You wished that you could be - or at least <em>seem </em>- unfeeling, indifferent; good at pretending that nothing haunted you.</p><p>The more you thought about the differences between you and General Hux, the more down you felt and the more insecure you became. You knew these were feelings that would eventually drag you down, make you weak, and then become an excuse for the First Order to toss you aside, like a broken toy. You were a nobody - but you weren’t useless. You had people that depended on you to make the right decisions: your squad, filled with newbies that replaced the fallen ones. Your new team. </p><p>You wished you could say that you were doing a good job at being their leader, but you couldn’t. They obeyed your orders, but were afraid, reluctant to be in your presence for too long; it wasn’t the kind of authority you wanted, but unknowingly, you followed through with it, foolish enough to take it as a sign of respect. Doubts grew, and only one question remained unanswered: would you ever become as great as General Hux? Would you ever be as successful, influential and respected as him, if even your own team despised your very existence?</p><p>The General caught you staring at him once, frozen in place, deep in thought; but instead of brushing you aside, or barking out an order to get out of the way, he simply stood and stared back.</p><p>Your insides shrunk with raw fear; you stepped aside, muttering a hasty apology, and hung your head low as a sign of submission.</p><p>His eyes felt like scorching flames on your face as he searched for something in your expression when you straightened back up; and then he left, leaving you alone - hands trembling as you kept them clasped tightly behind your back.</p><p>You knew the answer.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It took you a while to get used to being called a 'sergeant'.</p><p>You deserved it, deserved the promotion - the First Order knew how to motivate its members, and the prospect of getting even more influence, <em>more power</em>, was very attractive.</p><p>You've killed so many people for that.</p><p>With each operation, your resolve hardened. Doubts were erased with time, and soon, you learned to deal with stress that's been coming your way. You simply worked to the point where you were not capable of thinking about anything, be it due to exhaustion or simple distraction. You were burning yourself out physically, yet instead of feeling bad about it, you felt good. It became a dependency of sorts, and you were more than happy to let it consume you if it meant getting rid of useless thoughts.</p><p>There were rumors about you. Some said that you were a relentless fighter and a potentially good leader - you kept your subordinates on their toes and disciplined those who made errors. Others claimed that you were too strict, too driven, too successful, perhaps; they envied your ability to survive the worst of possible situations, envied the way you were able to focus on your objective and move persistently towards it, cutting and shooting your way through the enemy lines.</p><p>All of these rumors might have flattered the younger version of you, the inexperienced, recognition-thirsty trooper with big plans and lots of motivation - but not the present you. If anything, the words whispered about you behind your back caused the nagging feeling of anger to resurface time and time again. The First Order had no place for lousy mouths, and if they had time to blabber about something as unimportant as your persona, that meant they were not suitable for the jobs assigned to them.</p><p>You were aware that you were somewhat copying the way General Hux held himself - with your promotion came more opportunities to cross paths with him, and you used the time spent in his company wisely. You never spoke unless he addressed you directly, which happened exactly four times, all of which were questions concerning the details about the latest missions, details that were omitted by your superior lieutenant; all of your attention was always on him, always watching, always noting his every movement, always listening into his every word. You never crossed the line, averted your gaze respectfully to the ground whenever he looked your way, and gave short, dry responses to the questions asked. You were certain that the General took notice of all of this, of your increased attention to his character, but, being a professional that he was, he never said anything. All of this was masterfully concealed, by the both of you - and so it turned into a game: you, pretending that you didn't feel anything during the infrequent meetings, and him, pretending that he didn't see that childlike awe, hidden behind the mask of mature indifference.</p><p>You knew better than to try and pursue those forbidden feelings, to further develop that unwelcome attachment; you threw those pure yet useless thoughts out of your head, choosing to focus on something other than the fact that General Hux never showed displeasure from having you work alongside him. You focused on your career instead, on your duty before the First Order, and before long, those troubling thoughts were pushed back, new, safer ones replacing them.</p><p>There were better things to do than to nourish the weak side of yourself, and you knew it.</p><p>A new rank always meant more responsibility, more prestige and more expectations. As a sergeant, you were in charge of overseeing operations and leading large squads into the battle, leading them to victory. You were expected to set an example for the troopers, demonstrate your devotion to the cause and urge them to follow in your footsteps; you encouraged them to feel less and do more for the First Order, encouraged them to put the objective first, team second and themselves last.</p><p>You were also in charge of recording the ID number of each trooper lost in every fight.</p><p>You remembered the first time you did it - you had called on a squad leader to aid you in this task due to the sheer number of troopers that went MIA, aside from the corpses of those that were transported back to the Starkiller Base. You remembered hearing the young man inhale a shuddering breath under his mask, barely audible, yet loud enough for you to whip around and direct your eyes to his face. He had frozen up back then, shoulders locked tight, helmet hiding his true expression from you; the twitch of his fingers said enough, and so you ordered him to recite the ID numbers of his fallen comrades.</p><p>His voice was low and strained, a slight tremble noticeable even as it went through the voice filter installed in his helmet. He stopped talking, stood still for a second, apologized, and only then he carried on with the task.</p><p>With each name spoken, you felt something inside of you crumble; you recognized almost every one of them. The squad leader kept talking, and with each passing second, you felt yourself getting lost in your head more and more. You thought about your very first battle, your very first enemy, your very first time seeing a fellow stormtrooper die. You thought about the one female trooper that you have murdered, thought about the nightmares that haunted you after that, despite the fact that you acted out of mercy, not malice. You thought about the many fighters lost under your command because of your stubbornness, your pride. Because of your desire to achieve greatness at the expense of those around you.</p><p>The squad leader finished naming the fallen and the missing, and by that time, you felt like you were going to collapse right then and there. You stood before the young man in stunned silence, refusing to raise your eyes to his.</p><p>You thanked him for his help and dismissed him, watching him salute and leave in a hurry, tense, nearly trembling.</p><p>Guilt gnawed at your mind; the names of your subordinates tasted bitter on your tongue as you whispered them into the emptiness before you.</p><p>Something dripped down your cheek, and your hand instinctively shot up. You swallowed a lump in your throat as more transparent liquid trickled down your face, leaving wet, cold trails on your skin. Eyes burning, you stared at the water drops glistening on the dark leather of your glove in horror, stomach churning at the disturbing realization. <em>Weak, </em>you heard your own voice shout in your head, cold, disgusted; that same word you threw mercilessly at the troopers, the same ones that became nothing more than a bunch of letters and numbers in your casualties log.</p><p>You remembered stumbling to the nearest wall, suddenly pale and shaking - more tears escaping your eyes, even as you wiped at your face, over and over again, panicked, but most of all, <em>confused</em>.</p><p>Why... Why were you...?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>You have witnessed the process of torture only one time in your life - soon after you became a lieutenant.</p><p>The members of the First Order knew what they were doing when inflicting pain upon the victims, and every action was very well planned, coordinated and executed. You've heard of the many methods that were used as a means of extracting information out of unwilling captives, and you took notice of the fact that the torture was, interestingly enough, <em>careful</em>. Despite the injuries received from it, the victims were kept alive, minds broken yet bodies relatively intact.</p><p>The blindfold didn't allow you to see anything past the dark cloth, tied too tight around your head; there was a ringing sound in your ears, but you couldn't tell if it was real, coming from some sort of equipment, or simply the aftermath of a blow you had received mere moments ago. A whimper made its way past your lips, and you gasped as another hit was landed on your face - you opened your mouth wider, gulping down bitter air, tongue darting out to collect the blood dripping from your nose.</p><p>You didn't remember how you ended up tied and subjected to this useless torture. You did, however, remember thinking that if they kept it up, the brain damage wouldn't allow you to even speak, yet back then, you chose to keep your silence, even as your captors promised to stop hurting you if you gave up the locations of two specific First Order bases.</p><p>You knew better than to take the bait - even with your thoughts clashing against each other inside of your aching skull, you knew that giving up the information meant death, no matter which side your executors would be from. Dying from the hands of your enemies was more honorable than dying from the hands of your allies, and you had no plans of becoming a filthy traitor. Not after everything you have sacrificed to become who you were.</p><p>A twitch ran through your body; you couldn't feel your left leg from the knee down, to which you supposed the blood loss from a blade sticking out of it had finally decided to make itself known. There were bruises covering your upper body, all residual memories of a long-term torture session you had to endure. The blindfold made it really hard to focus on anything else besides the pain - but you kept your silence, heaving a tired, shaky sigh instead.</p><p>Your head hurt too much, and so did your chest. Even a task as simple as breathing was painful - you didn't need a proper medical examination to know that a couple of your ribs were broken, a generous gift from your captors for refusing to speak.</p><p>They had targeted you because you were the highest ranking First Order official on the ship they shot down; <em>fools</em>. You screamed as more pressure was applied to the vibroblade, directed up and tearing through the muscle of your thigh, leaving a long, bleeding gash. Curses fell from your mouth, yet you refused to beg. You could smell the blood in the air, you could taste it, could <em>hear </em>it dripping from your body and onto the floor, like water from an overflowing sink.</p><p>Someone laughed, a low, rumbling sound that you almost didn't hear due to your own yelling; "<em>I'll make you sing,</em>" they taunted, and you howled, agitated and afraid at the same time.</p><p>You couldn't think anymore. Head turning from side to side, you cried, body twitching upwards and against the restraints holding you down. It was cold, and warmth seemed to have been escaping you with each exhale. Facial muscles twitching, you bit the inside of your cheek till you tasted fresh metal, brain barely registering the questions asked to you.</p><p>You didn't - couldn't - answer, the only thing on your mind being a memory of the cold, polished halls of Starkiller Base. Your <em>home</em>. You wanted to go home so bad, wanted to get away from this pain and back on duty, even if it meant being demoted to a rank of stormtrooper for failing the mission and having the entire squad wiped out. It didn't matter.</p><p>An image of pale, serious eyes and fiery red hair came to mind. <em>General Hux.</em> You wished you could tell him how much you respected him as a person and as a leader, wished you could salute him one more time. Wished you could tell him that he's been your inspiration, your teacher, your everything.</p><p>You cried, cursing yourself for never being brave enough to tell him all of that. Blamed yourself for not treating your team better, for not being strong or smart enough to avoid getting them all killed, and yourself - captured. You cursed your fate, your torturers and your weak body that became infuriatingly pliable under the clumsy ministrations of cruel, unprofessional hands.</p><p>Bloody red. The floor was stained with it, you noted absentmindedly as your blindfold slipped slightly down, unfocused eye taking in the blurred image of a dark room with red-tinted air. The world spun.</p><p>You couldn't quite remember how much time had passed. All you could count were the hits received and the drops of red splattering onto the ground. Soon, you couldn't even tell if it was all real, or if it was just another nightmare, sent to completely destroy you.</p><p>There was an echo in the room whenever you screamed. And then there wasn't - vocal cords exhausted to the point of being unable to produce any type of sound.</p><p>The captors were getting impatient, and the damage they inflicted betrayed their forced confidence, revealing a lack of experience; harsh words were thrown at you, their meaning barely registering within your exhausted mind. </p><p>When you heard blasters going off, you mistakenly concluded that your torturers have decided to not waste their time any further with you - yet you felt no burn or pain from being shot. When your bounds were loosened, you didn't even have the strength to wriggle out of them; you, however, made weak, feeble attempts to fight back when hands grabbed onto you, dragging you out of the confinement and somewhere further off, onto the cold floor. You stopped struggling when a familiarly altered voice yelled out a short, triumphant "<em>We found the lieutenant!</em>"; your trembling, bleeding hands immediately clutched onto the shoulders of your savior, fingers digging into the armor plates and broken sobs escaping your throat - humiliatingly unrestrained, yet so very necessary at that moment.</p><p>You were saved.</p><p>That search party was led by none other than the legendary Captain Phasma herself; she was also the one to question you as soon as you regained consciousness after blacking out mid-flight to the Starkiller Base. You knew better than to take it personally, and so you endured the interrogation - yet you were unable to feel anything but bitter hurt from having your loyalty questioned. Jaw locked tight and eyes refusing to look away from Phasma's visors, you replied to each and every question confidently, quickly, the rasp of your voice harsh and loud, echoing in the spacious room.</p><p>You never had the pleasure to work alongside Phasma because you were not directly under her command; you did cross paths on several occasions, and those couple of times were enough for you to understand that she was overqualified to be a simple captain - she had the spirit of a veteran, and her each action, executed with practiced caution and grace, spoke volumes. Much like General Hux, she was fully committed to the First Order and made sure her subordinates were as well.</p><p>You, however, remembered her from the first couple of years into the stormtrooper training, during which you would listen to the holograms with her recorded speech several times a day, eyes glued to that beautiful, intricate chrome armor of hers. Majestic and powerful, untouchable - a polar opposite of yourself.</p><p>Her tone never changed throughout the questioning; she asked you whether you revealed the precious information to your captors, over and over again, and each time, you denied it. The pauses she would make after hearing your answers were tense and pressuring, as if she was deep in thought - her helmet would tilt almost unnoticeably, and she would regard your bandaged wounds, your bruised face, your hands, clenched into tight, trembling fists. She was aware of the fact that you were telling the truth, the fact that you wouldn't have been in such a terrible state had you given up the information. Traitors ended up dead much more quickly, and you both knew it.</p><p>She believed you. Instead of using brute force and beating the truth out of you, she simply called for a medical droid to accompany you back to the med bay; and then she left, stride fast and purposeful, voice - altered, unperturbed as she spoke: <em>"Requesting a meeting with General Hux. Uploading results of the</em> <em>interrogation</em>." </p><p>You sat there, watching as the doors closed behind her; when you couldn't hear her footsteps anymore, you slouched in your chair, covered your face with both hands, and <em>wept</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Your recovery took only a couple of weeks, yet it still felt like an eternity.</p><p>Each hour you spent in the isolated room of the medical bay was nearly equivalent to an entire day - instead of being out in the field, you were stuck in a bright room full of equipment half of which wasn't even used on you. Arguing with the droids was useless, yet you couldn't help but ask every so often how much time you had until your release. They would beep and they would show you holograms of charts containing the progress made towards your full recovery, and you would groan quietly in annoyance at the number of days displayed there.</p><p>You wanted to get out of there not because you were eager to get back to fighting or giving out orders - it was because of the thoughts that plagued your mind when you were awake, and the nightmares that haunted you when you were asleep. Nothing could distract you from all of that, and with each passing day, you felt yourself struggling against the weight of the memories more and more, to the point where you felt like you were losing it. You would wake in the middle of the night screaming, pushing the nonexistent torturers away from you, and the machinery around you would flare in red, screeching in panic as you raised your hands to cover your ears, shivering, too lost in your delirium to realize that you were safe.</p><p>The day when you finally got to step out of the med bay wasn't the day when you were supposed to be discharged, yet you couldn't wait to get back to your duties as a lieutenant - the sudden notification sent to your datapad, however, came as a surprise. You paled when you read over the contents of it, swallowing hard at the mention of a certain general's name.</p><p>It hurt to sprint, yet you ignored the feeling as you rushed down the maze-like corridors, taking shortcuts through the near-empty control rooms and allowing yourself to slow down only when you were approaching the designated meeting place.</p><p>You expected anything: from demotion to being locked away, tortured or publicly humiliated; you were even somewhat looking forward to it, to being dismissed permanently, perhaps due to the sensitivity of the situation or simply due to your injuries. What you didn't expect, however, was being promoted to the rank of a captain.</p><p>You remembered standing there, dumbfounded, emotions flashing across your face, unconcealed - remembered the sharp glare sent in your direction from none other than General Hux himself. Your heart hammered inside of your chest, painfully loud; at some point, you could have sworn that you started trembling, unable to keep still from the sudden desire to pass out. You swallowed down the lump in your throat and somehow managed to speak a hoarse, near-whispering "<em>Thank you, sir.</em>" before turning your eyes to Phasma. You remembered General Hux stepping closer, his tall stature nearly towering over you, and hissing out a dissatisfied "<strong><em>Eyes on me!</em></strong>" into your face. It took all of your self-control to not start openly shaking - your eyes burned as you lifted your gaze to his face, breath being quite literally knocked out of you upon seeing the expression he was making.</p><p>The cold, unforgiving <em>disappointment </em>he was looking at you with reminded you of all the nights you spent awake, thoughts far away and body aching painfully after yet another battle endured the day before; it reminded you of the way you looked at yourself in the mirror, eyeing the few scars that were associated with memories of your own weakness, your inability to avoid getting them in the first place.</p><p>And at that very moment, you saw none other than <em>yourself</em> in General Hux - and you wondered if the dismay he allowed to show in his crystal clear eyes, in the crease of his brow, in the tense square of his shoulders, was caused by the fact that he saw something of <em>himself </em>in you.</p><p>You opened your mouth to say something, anything - yet nothing came to mind. And so the man before you, the very same man you idolized for years, the same person you longed to have by your side, spoke instead of you, words harsh, borderline disgusted: "<em>D</em><em>o not make me regret my decision, captain.</em>"</p><p>You silently raised your hand to your visor.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>All movement came naturally once you stepped your foot onto the battleground - dirt, scorched in flames, and rocks, split by the force of the explosions felt natural under your feet; the polluted air made it difficult to breathe, yet you pushed through the discomfort, shaking your head to relieve the tension building up in your temples.</p><p>"<em>Please, leave me! Captain!</em>" you glanced down, to your hands that held tightly onto the shoulders of a squad leader; voice panicked and helmet moving from side to side, she attempted to shrug your hands off, only for you to grip tighter and continue dragging her towards the closest cover.</p><p>Two hundred: that was the number of fighters you were responsible for. All selfless, all fresh out of the training, naive and young and foolish - much like you once upon a time.</p><p>You found yourself thinking that you would gladly die if it meant being able to keep each and every one of them alive.</p><p>The female trooper cried in pain as her unnaturally bent leg shifted with your movements, and you cursed before slowing down and carefully pushing her behind cover; you quickly looked around and dropped your own blaster into her lap, to which her head turned immediately in your direction - but you were already gone, rushing forward, brandishing a vibroblade.</p><p>It wasn't going to keep you alive for long, you knew it; the armor you wore provided little protection against the blasts of enemy cannons that burned through the sturdy material and left marks that would undoubtedly form ugly scars. You were pushing your luck, but you were close, <em>so close </em>to the objective. The blade broke, half of it sticking out of some Resistance member's jugular, blood pouring out of it in a colorful spray of pure red - strikingly similar in shade to the banner of the First Order.</p><p>Your troops followed you without a question. Another officer stepped before you, providing covering fire as you led the rest of the troopers further - you shouted orders, directing groups forward, drunk on the unmistakable taste of metal and victory.</p><p>Stormtroopers cheered, energized yells and cries filling the air as you advanced, and a memory suddenly came to mind: a memory of your first official day on duty. You remembered rushing headfirst into the fight, blood pumping excitedly in your veins, eyes sharp and hands unsteady; remembered getting your first kill, the thrill of getting your first ever official uniform with a black cuff edged in silver; you remembered it all - from the beginning of your stormtrooper training to the present time, and you smiled beneath your helmet, feeling like a trooper all over again: innocent, quick-minded and so impossibly <em>alive</em>. </p><p>Light reflected off the round, spherical object that was thrown under your feet; you halted to a stop, recognizing the flash of red and the quiet beeping sound it made as it landed in the midst of the cheering squad that followed hot on your heels, oblivious to the danger right beneath them.</p><p>You didn't think - you simply pushed the closest standing trooper away from you and dove to the ground, fingers digging into the thermal detonator and drawing it close to your chest; you curled up around it, trapping it between the ground and your body, closed your eyes and drew a quick, shuddering breath.</p><p>And then there was <em>light</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Critical condition. Overall paralysis and severe brain damage."</p><p>"Any chances of survival?"</p><p>"Unlikely, sir. The explosion damaged internal organs and shattered bone."</p><p>"What a waste."</p><p>Phasma said nothing to that, simply inclining her head in agreement.</p><p>General Hux turned back towards the glass separating the two of them from the isolation room - eyes immediately landing on the massive-looking machinery hooked to the unmoving, pale figure wrapped in white bandages; he scowled in displeasure at the large monitor hanging by the patient's side that was showing a stuttering green line. A medical droid was stationed by the bed, alert and ready, casting attentive artificial eyes to the motionless body every so often.</p><p>"I had my hopes."</p><p>He turned his head to glare at Phasma, annoyed: "Hope is not going to help. The First Order shall remain strong."</p><p>She kept her silence; General Hux turned on his heel, drawing his hands together behind his back, tense, irritated. "We have no room for dead weight."</p><p>He paused in the doorway, and Phasma caught onto a quiet, nearly exhausted sigh coming from him. The general looked back at her as she stayed standing by the wide glass, and for a fleeting moment, he directed his gaze towards the unconscious captain, trapped in a broken shell of a body, sacrificed for their cause. Phasma waited patiently for the order she knew he wanted to give from the very beginning - eyes narrowing discreetly behind her visors in disapproval at the strain in Hux's voice when he finally spoke:</p><p>"Remove the life support."</p><p>"Yes, General."</p><p>He didn't look back this time.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please leave a heart if you enjoyed my work and thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>